


Six Years

by sublightsleeper



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Tony Stark Is A Hot Mess, tony has the arc reactor because I said so, vague mentions of infinity war that will no way actually work out when the movie comes out, vague mentions of underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 11:37:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublightsleeper/pseuds/sublightsleeper
Summary: Temperance and chastity were never words in Tony Stark’s vocabulary, until he met Peter Parker. (Everything started at the Cyclone. Everything coalesced with Thanos. And everything cemented after Peter’s graduation.)





	Six Years

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Carlota, who is endlessly patient, endlessly kind and honestly the best friend I've ever had.

 

Six years.

Almost to the day, except for the fact that Tony has never been good with dates, and he’s prone to sleeping for days at a time, and then staying up for an equal, or longer amount of time.Okay, so technically he’s ten days off, a fact made evident when he wakes heavy eyed from an unfulfilling sleep to see the date blinking in the corner of his email.

And technically, they’re on a “break”, insofar as much two people who have never actually admitted to anything can be.

Sometimes, Tony thinks about that night after everything went down with Thanos. He thinks about Peter above him and Tony’s lips pressed against bruised, broken skin and the way Peter looked at him with those big, dark eyes and said _we could-_ and Tony had cut him off with a single shake of the head, despite wanting with every last cell in his body.

Temperance and chastity were never words in Tony Stark’s vocabulary, until he met Peter Parker. (Everything started at the Cyclone. Everything coalesced with Thanos. And everything cemented after Peter’s graduation.)

They’ve never so much as rounded second base, if you’re one for metaphors, even though the night of Peter’s graduation ended with Tony having a lapful of Parker and his willpower sorely tested. ( _We could,_ Peter says. Tony shakes his head. They both go home to cold showers, and the world keeps turning.)

They’re on a “break” (Peter’s terrible air quotes have infiltrated Tony’s vocabulary.) just like they were when Peter first moved into his dorm at MIT. Because he was a very, very attractive young man surrounded by some of the best minds in the US. The last thing he needed was to feel tied down to something they’d never given name to, never pushed. 

It was some of the longest few months of Tony’s life, no booze to escape to, no Rhodey or Pepper to call to kick his ass through it. He managed. Somehow. Tony worked and he swallowed that broken glass feeling before every Avengers briefing and put on his best media smile, and life went on. 

(That first “break” taught Tony that he could survive. That he could in fact go back to being mired in self loathing and doubt, and still get out of bed in the morning, still put the suit on and save people. It wasn’t fun, but it was necessary.)

Until Peter cornered him after a briefing, hair still wild from where he yanked his mask off and told him  _enough is enough_ before he kissed him hard enough that Tony saw stars go supernova behind his closed eyes. 

That was the first “break”. This was the second, brought on by time and distance and Tony Stark’s worst enemy. Himself. 

Three months was how long the first one lasted. They were rounding into six months now, and Tony would commit perjury before he admits how many nights he spends listening to the audio logs from Peter’s suit, and throwing up walls between them whenever Avengers business puts them in the same room. 

(He still has nightmares about the hand over the cracked reactor casing in his chest.  _I’m sorry, Tony. I’m sorry._ )

Because Peter was old enough now to drop this hero worship and crush business. He just needed the right girl. Or guy. He knew (through completely illegal means) about the two months that Peter and MJ dated, and as much as Tony refused to let anyone take the blame for his alcoholism, God it made him want to crawl into a bottle and never come out. 

But they parted ways, still friends and Tony’s suffocating misery became a little more bearable, a little more breathable. 

(It’s not like he hasn’t had his own flings, though Tony’s rarely lasted past the night. And never did the trick.) 

Six years. 

“Hey Friday? What’s the forecast for stupid today?” There’s a moment’s pause as he swings his legs over the bed, socked feet against the floor before she answers.  _That is entirely up to you, boss._

Tony drives, because drawing attention to himself is not what he wants here. He’s always been fiercely protective of Peter when it came to the media, always did his best to try and keep attention deflected elsewhere. Landing on the MIT campus in the Mark XLIX doesn’t really lend itself to subtle deflection. The Ferrari doesn’t exactly lend itself either, but it’s the most austere ride he’s got. 

Four hours gives him plenty of time to think. Because whatever could be said about the last six years, it’s that Tony never blamed a second of it on impulse, or loss of control. It was always a choice. 

Peter was always a choice. 

Tony sends two texts when he hits the first red light in Cambridge. One of them is to Peter, a simple  _I’m at the apartment. If you want to talk._

Now the apartment in Cambridge? It was an impulse buy. Same as the one in Manhattan. But Tony’s never been good at distance. The place is untouched when he turns the lock, six months of disuse written in the faint layer of dust on the table by the door. 

It’s only when he shuts the door and sinks down onto one of the overstuffed arm chairs in the living room that Tony realizes that there’s a chance that Peter might not show. That his intended purpose of all this distance might have finally clicked into place.

Panic hits him like an icy grip around his lungs. ( _I’m sorry, Tony. I’m sorry._ ) Tony lurches from the chair and stumbles into the bathroom, pressing his forehead against the closed door. 

“Mr. Stark?” 

It punches what little air he has left right out of him. That hesitance, that distance, like they don’t have six years and thousands of miles and catastrophes of all sizes littered between them. ( _I’m sorry, Tony. I’m sorry.)_

Tony wrenches the door open and is met with a raised hand, web shooter already pointed at him. But Peter’s resolve falters into confusion as Tony stalks across the living room and grabs him by the front of his hoody, dragging the kid into a clashing, wild kiss. 

And God help him ( _Mr. Stark?_ ) it happens ( _if you really cared, you’d actually be here!)_  like it did ( _I’m sorry, Tony. I’m sorry.)_ the first time. Peter relents, softens against the onslaught and makes a quiet noise against Tony’s lips before his own part. 

“I had a whole speech planned.” Fingers are forced to uncurl and slide down past hips, against the backs of thighs to lift. Peter is slight enough to pull up in one heft, and Tony doesn’t miss the one hand Peter plants against the wall to keep him there when they collide with it. “I was going to tell you…”

That would be a hand in Tony’s hair, trying to lead him back down into a kiss with a fraction of that enhanced strength, and the words scatter off of his tongue long enough for Peter to lick into his mouth. “No offense, but I don’t care about your speech.” Teeth graze against Tony’s jaw, working down his throat. 

“He kissed me.” Peter stills, and finally pulls back enough to just watch. Even with his ankles crossed behind Tony’s back, it’s obvious how much of what’s holding the kid up is wall crawling. “Yesterday.” Is it really a confession when they weren’t…what they usually were? Not that it matters. Not that Tony can stop talking. 

“It’s one of those things I spent my formative years fantasizing about. And a good couple of years after New York. But it happened and…” Tony looks away, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek. “My phone went off. A text. And my stomach dropped more from the idea that maybe you broke down and texted me than kissing him.”

Peter’s watching him with those big brown eyes, chest heaving with each stolen breath. “So did you?” He doesn’t have to say more than that. Tony shakes his head. It’s like deja vu, but tilted a millimeter to the right. Peter blows out a shaky, relieved breath. “So can we finally?”

Tony’s knees sag. (Yeah, he’s not holding Peter up at all.) He presses his forehead against Peter’s chest, breathing in the smell of laundry soap and…his aftershave? After a beat lost to the hypnotic brush of fingers against his nape, Tony finally finds words. 

“Parker, did you steal my aftershave?” Because there’s no way the kid could afford it on the scholarship stipend. 

Tony can feel the ripple of tensing muscle against him, and can picture that stubborn jaw without having to open his eyes. “Yeah well, you broke up with me. I figured I was entitled.” 

He opens his mouth to say something coy. But as has always been the case with Peter, the truth comes out instead. “I wanted you to be happy.”

Peter watches him, a slow blink that tells Tony just how stupid the kid thinks that is. “I  _am_  happy. I mean, I was happy. The way things were.” Peter sighs. “Mr.–Tony. I’m not a kid anymore. And I get what you’re trying to do, you’re trying to protect me. But we had a deal, right? The little grey area.” 

Peter holds up the hand not anchoring him to the wall, thumb and index finger close together. ( _We can keep each other in line._ ) 

“You think I’m clingy now? Wait until we’ve slept together. It’s terrible. You’ll regret it-”

“- _Tony_.”

Tony clears his throat, and finally brings his eyes back to Peter. The flush to his skin and his bitten lips, and the way he’s watching Tony like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. 

It’s all too easy to lean in again, focused on sliding his tongue against the jumping line of Peter’s pulse. “We could…”

“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s.” Peter’s voice is breathless, head thumping back against the drywall. He starts to reach for the hem of his hoody, but hesitates for a moment, head cocked and eyes distant. 

“Crap.”

It’s only after a moment of strained listening that Tony hears the faint sound of an alarm wailing in the distance.

Peter is rigid against him, pushing away with one hand and pulling Tony closer with the other. Tony sighs, and steals one last kiss from those perfect lips before he untangles Parker’s legs from his waist and steps back.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Only suit I brought with me is my birthday suit. Get to it, Spider-Man.”

Peter gawks at him for a moment before he detaches from the wall, tugging his hoody off and tossing it on the floor as he reached for his extra suit in the case beneath the bed.

It was only when he was dressed and halfway out the open window onto the fire escape that he turned and pointed at Tony, mask pulled up over his nose. “Just… Just stay here, okay? I won’t take that long.”

Tony holds his hands out, palms up and placating as he drops down onto the bed, springs creaking beneath his weight. “Not going anywhere.”

He waits until he can’t hear those thwips anymore, and pulls his phone out. “Friday. Interface with the suit.” That lag is judgmental, Tony can feel it. He rolls his eyes. “Friday. Interface with Karen.”

What a coincidence, he gets an instant connection when he uses her name. Tony settles back against the headboard, making himself comfortable.

“So what if, theoretically, I started without you?” The whimper on the other end of the line is deeply satisfying. “I mean, your hands are full. No reason mine can’t be.”

Peter says  _Tony_  and it’s absolutely wrecked. It cuts straight through him, and suddenly all that theorem is practical application because Tony is tugging his zipper down, loud in the quiet.

“Is it in bad taste to mention how many times I’ve thought about doing this? Or thought about you doing it? Because the number is impressive. Just like something else in this room.”

That knocks a breath of laughter from Peter, and it kickstarts Tony's breathing again. 

Tony trails slow fingers over the vee of cotton where it sits beneath his slacks, just ghosting over the hard curve beneath. It’s enough to make him suck in a breath, and Peter responds instantly. “What. What… are you doing?”

Tony’s pretty sure every variation of this shower fantasy he’s ever had come nowhere close to the actual sound of Peter’s voice pitched into a heady whisper like this.

“Thinking about you, of course.” See, this is easy for him. Coy and sensual is pretty much his default speed after sarcasm. Peter swears under his breath, only just loud enough for Tony to pick it up.

“What about me?” Tony knows the switch only because he’s heard it in the field so many times. The tip over from Parker to Spider-Man, and the confidence that came with it.

“Your hands, mostly.” Thumb and middle finger of his own hand trace the outline of his erection through his boxers, but Tony still speaks like they’re talking about the weather. “What it’d feel like to have your fingers in my mouth. To have them on me.”

Peter isn’t a virgin, and maybe he’s done this before (Tony doesn’t want to know either way) but it doesn’t mean he’s got to be dirty with it. There’s always been something so pure about what he felt for Peter. The last thing Tony wants to do is sully it with raunchy pillow talk.

“Fuck.” It’s little more than an exhale from Peter, and then there’s the sound of him clearing his throat, and speaking to whoever is in front of him. “You guys know you’re really cramping my style tonight, right?”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to laugh. He listens to the quips and thwips, fingers teasingly idle against himself. “Okay, okay. Crisis averted. I’m on my way back. Don’t move. Don’t even think about moving.”

Nine minutes. That’s what the charmingly retro clock beside the bed tells him has passed since Peter left. That’s a hell of a turnaround time for catching the bad guys.

It’s another five before Peter sails in through the bedroom window, tucking into a roll and coming up on graceful feet. For all his assurances that he wouldn’t move, Tony’s hand has slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, and the movement there is covered by a thin layer of fabric, while still being blatantly obvious.

Peter doesn’t stop when he comes out of the roll, yanking his mask off and tossing it at the corner of his room without his eyes ever leaving Tony. He smacks a palm to his chest and the suit loosens, falling away from strong shoulders to pool onto the floor. 

All without Peter missing a step. 

(He’s come a long way from the kid who used to trip mid-run to take off in a swing.)

The bed creaks beneath the added weight of Peter straddling Tony’s knees, and he’s halfway to pulling his hand free when soft fingers circle against his wrist. The bravado that comes in waves seems to have deserted Peter again, cheeks pink as he lowers his gaze. “Can I?”

Tony’s mouth is very, very dry as he nods, fingers tightening against his length. Peter’s fingers answer in kind, pressing against the inside of his wrist and giving an experimental tug. 

The sound that Tony makes isn’t present on any of those sex tapes that are in the dark corners of the internet. It’s throaty and pressed behind his closed lips, the muscle in his jaw jumping. Peter looks from their hands to Tony’s face, and back again. When he touches once more, it’s with fingers curled over Tony’s own hand beneath the tented fabric. 

“Peter.” It’s a breath, it’s a break, it’s Tony’s entire world coming apart at the seams, and God he wants everything else he could ever possibly dream of while simultaneously not wanting anything else but this moment for the rest of his life.

A jerky, uneven nod gets their hands in motion, and Peter doesn’t stop after a single stroke this time. Pleasure settles white hot at the base of his spine and it’s all Tony can do to lean his head back against the headboard and watch Peter, his own head bowed in concentration. 

There’s three terrifying little words that Tony has been carrying around for a good long while now sitting heavy on the end of his tongue. He swallows them with a groan, eyes fluttering closed. 

“Take…take your shirt off, will you? I’m feeling under-dressed here.” Let no one ever say that Tony was the only nervous rambler in this…oh for fuck’s sake, call a spade a spade, in this  _relationship_. 

Tony’s fingers tremble where they work the buttons loose on his shirt, faint blue light spilling out into the bedroom and splashing across the skin of Peter’s abdomen, and the pale stretch of his thighs.

He’s distracted while once it’s open, running his own free hand up Peter’s naked abdomen, and across his chest, knocking a breathless sound loose from the kid before he clamps his eyes shut with a shaky noise. “You alright?” Tony’s already trying to pull his hand free of his boxers when Peter’s hand goes vice grip tight. 

“Input.” Another shaky burst of breath. “Lots of…input.”

_Oh. “_ Friday.” Tony keeps his voice low, though he’s not sure he could manage much more than a hoarse whisper anyway. “Hit the lights.” The bedroom is plunged into darkness, save for the pool of blue light between them. Peter’s shoulders, and his grip soften. “Better?”

“Better.” Both hands free, Tony pulls him down into a kiss, slow and deep, trying to map every inch, to remember every spot that elicits a sound. Peter shifts forward and that first undulating roll of his hips have Tony’s nerve endings lighting up, and any flagging interest firmly placed back in the moment. 

Tony kicks his shoes off, and toes off his socks, Peter somehow managing to help Tony lift his hips enough to slide his slacks down to the edge of the bed, all without breaking the kiss. “We don’t have to.” The tremble in Tony’s voice seems so much louder in the dark.

“I know.” Clever hands catch his own and lead them to slide into the back of Peter’s boxers. They groan in stereo as Peter leans his forehead against Tony’s. “I want to.”

“Wallet’s in my back pocket. There’s supplies.” Tony has to physically bite down on the heel of his hand when Peter folds over backwards like it’s no big deal, pressed down against Tony in all the right ways so that he can grab the condom and the packet of lube from Tony’s wallet. “Boxers gotta go.”

“Yours too?” Tony nods in the darkness, and they spend a few tense seconds divesting themselves of the last of their clothes, the last barrier between them. Naked skin against his own has Tony whispering equations beneath his breath to keep it together. 

“Gonna be uncomfortable at first.” Peter snorts and mumbles  _I’ve done it to myself okay_  and there’s a rush of relief in Tony’s chest. The first finger is still an intrusion, and Tony gives himself over to the idea before he can chicken out or change his mind. “C’mere. Scoot up.”

Up and up, until Peter’s kneeling over his shoulders and Tony can’t see his face in the dark anymore. But he can lift his head enough to drag his tongue along Peter’s slit, and hear the choked sound that follows. “You take care of this end. I’ll take care of that end. If I’m going to gag, I’ll tap your leg like this.”

In Peter’s defense, he doesn’t know it’s a ploy. But the pat to the kid’s leg gives him all the leverage he needs to lie back against the pillow, and pull Peter down enough so that he’s thrusting into Tony’s mouth even as he works a slick finger back towards his entrance. 

In the low light, everything is in snapshots. Peter’s bowed head and the hand not curled around his length pressed flat against the wall. The staccato sound of their breathing. The warmth of Peter opening up around a third finger, hips rocking fluidly. 

There’s never been a more  _now or never_  moment in Tony’s life. He doesn’t tap Peter’s leg, just waits for a moment that he can suck in a breath and rush out “Condom.” before Peter slides back in. 

Slim hips stutter and work their way backwards, keening softly at the loss as Tony pulls his hand back to hold the condom wrapper and rip it open with his teeth. Slick fingers work it down over him, and it’s the moment of truth. “Go slow. Stop if it’s-”

The words are stuttered off into a broken sound as Peter’s fingers steady him and he starts to sink down, inch by excruciating inch. Tony’s hands flutter, unsure where to go. They feather against Peter’s forearms, his thighs, his chest. 

There’s a second where Peter is bottomed out that neither of them breathe. Heartbeats even seem to still in the quiet. Then Peter’s palm is pressed against Tony’s chest, blue light seeping between his spread fingers as he rolls his hips and the world begins to  _spin._

Each thrust is a liquid thing, Tony completely at Peter’s mercy. Blunt nails scrape against Peter’s hip bones, too afraid to hold on, too afraid to let go. He’s entranced, hypnotized by Peter’s chin where it rests against his chest, the arc painting him pale across the rise of cheekbone. 

“Tony. God, Tony.” 

But that voice, that beautiful, perfect voice that has haunted him for  _years_  is enough to return him to his faculties, a hand flat at the base of Peter’s spine, the other curled possessive against the back of his neck as Tony guides them into a kiss. 

It doesn’t take long. Years of foreplay and a twenty something with sensory overload will do that. Tony feels the shift, the way Peter’s thighs start to shake, and all that graceful motion becomes erratic. 

“Let me.” It’s a whisper, and Peter bobs his way through a nod, teeth sunk into his bottom lip. Tony takes him in hand, achingly slow, and never enough pressure, because he’s drunk on the sounds spilling out of Peter. 

But still, but god,  _still_  it’s enough to send the kid over the edge, Tony’s name on his lips as he shudders through his release and paints himself across Tony’s knuckles. 

Now it’s Tony’s turn to beg, strung out on closeness and the slick slide of skin against his own. “Please, Peter. I need-” Peter’s answering breathless  _yeahyeahyeah_  is swallowed up by Tony using momentum to flip them, Peter’s knees folded up over his shoulders. “Please.”

“Yeah. Go.” Peter’s voice is hoarse, like they’ve been shouting though it’s been whispers for so long. It’s permission that Tony needs and that first snap of his hips is desperate. “You’re not gonna hurt me. C’mon, Tony.”

The next thrust sends the headboard slamming into the wall. And the next. Tony’s breathing like he’s on the fringes of a panic attack, and maybe he is. Maybe that’s what steals  _I love you, God I love you so much_  from his lips and presses it against Peter’s pulse as he shudders through his release. 

Tony slumps against him, arc digging into the kid’s chest as he struggles to catch his breath. ( _I’m sorry, Tony. I’m sorry._ ) 

“Hey.” Fingers trail through his sweat soaked hair, nice and easy, and slow enough that Tony finds himself able to match his breath to it. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. Not while I’m around.”

And it should be the other way around. Tony was the one who was supposed to be protecting Peter, the one who was supposed to save him. But Peter had saved Tony time and again, in ways that seemed unimaginable before the kid swung into his life. 

“Six years.” Tony’s voice is a little more stable. He winces as he pulls out, tying off the condom and dropping it onto the floor before he rolls onto his back. And just on cue, Peter rolls against his side, head propped on Tony’s shoulder. 

“Yeah?” Wonder and exhaustion and affection. And not enough energy to open those big dark eyes, apparently. 

“Yeah.” A beat. “Happy anniversary, kid.”


End file.
